


afraid

by forbearnan (m_feys)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (because its THAT episode), Angst, Arthur-centric, Canon Compliant, Canon Dialogue, Character Study, Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Gen, One-Shot, POV Arthur, after mordred stabs him, merlin's confession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_feys/pseuds/forbearnan
Summary: He falls on the battlefield. Sword still in hand. And he wakes up, dead.





	afraid

**Author's Note:**

> I [posted](https://forbearnan.tumblr.com/post/186530955462/afraid) this on tumblr already if you want to reblog it there, but figured I would cross-post to here since I was gonna use ao3 eventually anyway.

When he rouses. There’s a fire burning just in front of him. And he sees Merlin, his dark head turned towards the trees.

It’s almost like a dream. He must be dead; because his friend had _left_ him.

“Merlin,” he speaks.

The man turns in an instant and he is at his side as he always should have been.

“How are you feeling?” the question is urgent and Arthur wants to say he’s fine but he can feel the ache through his body, radiating from his torso and it would be a lie. He tries to move and finds himself crying out as the pain spikes.

Not dead then, he decides, because he can feel the stab wound in his side, where Mordred’s blade had pierced him.

Merlin had been right.

“Easy,” Merlin’s voice comes and he can barely hear him as he stares up at the canopy of the trees. Arthur reaches for him blindly, hand easily finding his friend’s shoulder. “Lie back, lie back,” Merlin’s voice tells him, low and familiar as he grasps Arthur’s arm and keeps him there.

“Where– where ‘ave you been?” he struggles out the question because he needs to know. What was more important, than this final hour? So important it could tear Merlin from his side. It _hurts_.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he answers, voice solemn.

And Arthur finds it to be true. What does it matter now? It was over. Pain grips him.

“Ah! My si– my side,” he forces his voice back to something even as he speaks. He was a king, after all.

“You’re bleeding,” Merlin agrees, staring down at the wound. His words are calm but Arthur can feel the way Merlin’s fingers grip onto his wrist brace.

He struggles for breath and struggles to lift his head to look at Merlin, before dropping it heavily again and settling for staring up into the bright moonlight.

“That’s alright,” he says with a wry lift of his eyebrows, “thought I was dying.” Humor is easy, even now, if he could make Merlin smile one last time, that would be enough.

Merlin moves closer to him and at this angle its easier to see him leaning over Arthur, not smiling. No, he looks grim as ever. Grim as he always seemed to be in these last few years.

“I’m sorry,” he starts. And Arthur shakes his head, looking away from him and swallowing. He wants to tell him not to apologize. Merlin had not done this. _This_ was not on his hands. And if it had been, like he said: It doesn’t matter now.

But he goes on, “I thought I’d defied the prophecy.” He looks back at the man above him, who was still holding onto him desperately. “I thought I was in time,” he adds, voice low.

Arthur can’t help the confused smile that pulls at his lips even as his face stays twisted in pain. His head falls back and he rolls his eyes letting the smile drop off his face and trying not to let the pain take over, “what are you talking about?” he asks. Even now, he could never make sense of Merlin. He stares off into the woods, Merlin had always been his closest friend and he wishes that, for once, something about him could be simple.

“I defeated the Saxons,” Arthur blinks and turns to look at him, “the dragon, and yet–” And Arthur sees the heartbreak in his eyes and hears the truth in his words, and none of it makes any sense at all. He watches Merlin struggle out the words, “and yet I knew it was Mordred that I must stop.”

He lets all of that go and decides it doesn’t matter if he can comfort Merlin. None of this was his doing. He gives him his best smile and lifts his hand to pat his shoulder a few times because it’s all he _can_ do, “the person who defeated them, was the sorcerer,” he tells him easily.

These words only seem to serve to make Merlin look more wretched as he takes in a few uneven breathes, then, “it was me.”

There is a moment where, Arthur waits for him to crack a smile, for this to all be a joke and their last laugh together. It doesn’t come. Instead, his eyebrows furrow as he watches tears start to fall down his friends face as his breath shudders and he holds Arthur’s hand ever closer.

He shakes his head, and if Merlin won’t smile, he’ll do it for him, “don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” he tells him because that’s what this is, ridiculous, funny, a _joke_.

The man above him does not waver, does not look anything but sorrowful as he stares down at his king. His friend.

Arthur’s lip curls in distaste, he no longer enjoys this, he never has. “This is stupid, wh– why would you say that?”

“I’m a–” his voice breaks and Merlin is no longer looking at him. Arthur stares at him in rising horror. Finally, he looks back up at him, fresh tears running down his nose as he says it, “I’m a sorcerer.”

Arthur stares at him hollowly, feeling as if he’s not really here at all and it is _not_ because he’s dying. Gently, Merlin shakes his arm where he grasps it and admits, “I have magic.” He can only stare as Merlin sniffs and goes on, “And I use it, for you, Arthur,” he dips his head and keeps his grip on the base of Arthur’s hand, “only for you.”

“Merlin, you are not a sorcerer.” He tells him, voice certain and steady as he summons his strength to pull his hand from Merlin’s grip to gesture at his chest, “I would know.” He tells him, like it’s the simple truth, because it _is_.

Merlin’s hand moves to his shoulder like he can’t bear not to be holding onto him in some way. Arthur wishes he could just have his friend here, why, why did they have to do this? Why now?

“Look… here,” he offers, then turns away, reaching towards the fire, but not moving from Arthur’s side.

His voice hisses out a language that Arthur can’t understand, but he understands it is one of _magic_. Sparks drift up, naturally, until it isn’t natural anymore. They form a shape, a dragon, moving in the distortion of the smoke. He watches as it shifts, as though flying, then dissipates as they float away. Nothing makes any sense anymore.

He can’t look at Merlin, where he knows those eyes, which he thought were familiar, are waiting for him, watching him. For a long moment, he stares at the fire, he shifts away then, letting out a rough breath as he turns to look out at the trees as though they might hold some answer.

Finally, he looks back at Merlin, and for the very first time, finds himself _afraid_ of the man. He glances to see Merlin’s hand still on his plated shoulder, he swallows and leans away as much as is possible in the state he’s in.

“Leave me,” he says.

Merlin’s brows furrow, like he can’t understand– like, _he’s_ the one betrayed.

“Arthur–” he starts and reaches for him again.

He pulls his arm away, quickly, and it hurts, “don’t– just– you heard,” he struggles out the words. “Just…” he drops his arm, and grunts in pain, with no one, _no one_, not even his closest friend to hold onto, in this time of great need.

He lets his head tip back and tries to hold his arm in a way that doesn’t put weight on his torso. He breathes out labored breaths as he watches Merlin stand reluctantly and step away from him.

Arthur was not afraid of dying. Never had been. But being so alone, with the one person he thought he could always trust, so close. It was the most afraid he’d ever been.


End file.
